If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain
a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents.
But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went
through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings
as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first un-
derstand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly
was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just
sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against every-
thing he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Nether-
field. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of compre-
hension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might
bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes.
His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and
his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too an-
gry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what
he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It
was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—
when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if
true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore
so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet
more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, appre-
hension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely,
repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be
the grossest falsehood!"—and when she had gone through the whole letter,
though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily
away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it
again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing,
she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded
again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mor-
tifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far
as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection
with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the
kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent,
agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the
other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wick-
ham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his
very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on
one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her
wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention,
the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all preten-
sions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter,
weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—delib-
erated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both
sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more
clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any con-
trivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than
infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless
throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his en-
trance into the ——shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion
of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there re-
newed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been
known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,
had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring.
His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the pos-
session of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness,
some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him
from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue,
atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class
what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years' con-
tinuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him in-
stantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remem-
ber no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbour-
hood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess.
After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued
to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy,
received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was re-
ferred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—
from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern
in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to ques-
tion. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea
was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly
banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such
a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation be-
tween Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's. Many of
his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the
impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had es-
caped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he
had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She re-
membered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that
Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet
he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered
also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his
story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been every-
where discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.
Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father
would always prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the
moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His be-
haviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either
been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity
by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautious-
ly shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter;
and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bing-
ley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in
the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had latterly
brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways
—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything
that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connec-
tions he was esteemed and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him
merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately
of his sister as to prove him capable of someamiable feeling; that had his
actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that
friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr.
Bingley, was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
absurd.
"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself on
my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often
disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in use-
less or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just
a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly
blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference
of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of
our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven
reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew
myself."
From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's
explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again.
Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny
that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sis-
ter's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opin-
ion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of
Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and
that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often unit-
ed with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were men-
tioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of
shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for de-
nial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having
passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation,
could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it
could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted
by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane's disappointment
had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materi-
ally the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt
depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every vari-
ety of thought—re-considering events, determining probabilities, and recon-
ciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important,
fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return
home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usu-
al, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit
for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave
—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour,
hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could
be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really
rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think
only of her letter.
